


The Culling of the Fold

by Morianna



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BAMF John Watson, Gen, His Last Vow - AU, John Watson has enough
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-17
Updated: 2014-07-17
Packaged: 2018-02-09 04:46:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1969563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morianna/pseuds/Morianna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes you need to cut away part of yourself in order to survive.</p>
<p>Or</p>
<p>John Watson has enough of being lied to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Culling of the Fold

“IS EVERYBODY I KNOW A PSYCHOPATH?” 

John shouted, not even feeling sorry when Mary and Mrs. Hudson jumped, because otherwise he felt like he wouldn’t be heard. Blood was pounding in his ears and he couldn’t decide if he wanted to hit something, or throw up.

Mary had lied to him.

The fact that she was some kind of assassin seemed to be secondary to the reality that she had lied to him, that he had married a woman that he barely even knew. His wedding ring felt like it was made of lead, and he looked over to Sherlock for some kind of answer. Had he known? Or had the so-called Mary Morstan pulled the wool over the eyes of the world’s greatest detective?

Sherlock looked up, and John could almost see him stepping into his mind palace before he answered a simple, “yes.”

Which left John with only one conclusion. Whether Sherlock knew or not, _he didn’t care_. He didn’t care if the man he called his best friend — did that even mean anything to Sherlock Holmes — had married a psychopath.

John looked back at Mary, who smiled sheepishly, as if this was nothing more than an awkward situation, like she’d met someone who’d worn the same outfit as her. She nodded, in confirmation to Sherlock’s yes, and it was like cold dripping down his spine. He’d never felt more in danger, and he’d invaded Afghanistan.

He’d never be able to fully trust Sherlock since his death, not after he’d returned laughing, like it had all been a joke. John thought he had forgiven him for the train, filed it away in his mind as a combination of Sherlock being Sherlock, and possible PTSD. He didn’t know what Sherlock done to dismantle Moriarty’s web, and Sherlock hadn’t told him anything apart from the fact that he’d died to do so. Still, he’d wanted to think the best of him, to thank him for giving him the miracle he asked for and so he’d chalked it up to PTSD: trying to forgive the fact that his best friend had lied to him about the bomb set to go off beneath their feet.

He knew now that Sherlock was not forgiven. Not for the train, not for his death, and not for this.

And Mary. Somehow Mary was even worse. With Sherlock, the betrayal was sharp, but an expected pain. No one got close to Sherlock Holmes and expected to step away unharmed. But Mary had presented herself wrapped in silks, when in reality she was much of an unsheathed dagger as Sherlock was.

And now they said it was HIS fault. They looked at him like he was an idiot —maybe he was — to not have known, to not have expected betrayal after betrayal and that any injury, any hurt he felt, was all his own fault.

His future would be like this, he realized. An eternity of pretending to forgive and trying to forget and bleeding quietly as they tore him slowly to pieces. 

Sherlock — and even thinking his name still caused fury to rise up inside of him, because how dare he _how DARE he_ — was still talking. “Good that we settled that. Anyway we —“

“SHUT UP!” He didn’t want to hear another word, from him or Mary. His fingers traced the edge of his wedding ring and it felt like a clamp around his very soul.

He looked at Mary, who had nodded and smiled as Sherlock confirmed that she was a liar. What had he ever done to deserve her? To deserve the terrible, poisoned gift that that had introduced itself as Mary Morstan. He thought about asking; but in the end, what was the point? Any answer he received would be second and triple guessed as he lay awake at night next to a woman he could never trust. Sherlock and Mary would use those lying tongues tongue to talk circles around John, and everything would go back to the status quo. He could feel the temptation. He could ask, and let them convince him and go back to his pretty little cage of lies and deception.

Or he could get out. 

He could see it clear as day now, the opening away from these two psychopaths — three if you counted Moriarty, four if Mycroft was included; and didn’t that speak so much to John’s current situation that he didn’t even know how many psychopaths to count. If he let them, they’d suck him back in. But if he left now, he had a chance, like cutting off a limb before the infection could spread any further.

It would hurt — just thinking about it hurt — but he would live.

He traced the edge of his wedding ring one last time, and took it off. Sherlock went still, and Mary let out a short gasp. Was it an act? He already found himself second guessing everything about her as he put the wedding ring down on the first clear spot of table he found.

“I’m done.”

Sherlock opened his mouth, no doubt to start weaving again, to use his infinite cleverness to draw him back in, but John wouldn’t let him. 

“I am DONE being lied to. I am done with you, both of you.” Mary was crying. Every tear felt like another bullet ripping through him, but even through the pain he had to wonder if they were just crocodile tears, another ploy to keep him trapped.

“John.” Her voice cracked and she reached out for him.

He turned away, not trusting his words, not trusting himself. How could he, when everything he knew was turning out to be lies layered on lies? Who knew how deep the cancer grew? Was Sherlock really right? Was EVERYONE he knew a psychopath? Was Greg and Molly and Mrs. Hudson? 

He started for the door and Sherlock moved in front of him, looking surprised that John was actually leaving.

_Good_ , John thought. _Let him know what not knowing feels like for once._

He pushed past Sherlock, out of 221B. He heard them calling his name behind him, trying to draw him back in, trying to lie to him again. He slammed the door and cut them off — the first incision made in what he knew would be a long and painful operation to remove all the toxic relationships from his life.

An ambulance drove past him as he turned the corner of Baker Street and for a second he wondered if it was for him; every step away felt like being shot all over again. But it kept going, and so did he.

John Watson walked away bleeding, already thinking about how he should heal over the hole he’d carved into himself, and didn’t look back.

**Author's Note:**

> Title inspired by the song "The Culling of the Fold" by The Decemberists. 
> 
> This is my first Sherlock fanfic ever, but I just felt so awful for John during Season 3 that I felt I needed to write something where he broke free from all the toxic people in his life. 
> 
> I'm considering continuing and detailing his separation from Sherlock and Mary, but for now I'll just list it as a one-shot.
> 
> Comments and critiques always appreciated. :D


End file.
